


A Dance of Crows

by I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins



Series: The Way of Thedas [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Strong Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins/pseuds/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins
Summary: Six months after the Blight, Zevran seeks to change the order of House Arainai. His need for revenge over the loss of Rinna and Taliesen has only grown stronger as time passes, but he can't take on the entire House on his own. So he turns to his former lover, The Dark Wolf, for help.But Maroth's pain and resentment might just be as strong as Zevran's wish for revenge.AU. Strong HC.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after 'What Has Been Wrought', my Blight story. Maroth Tabris was not a Warden, but did travel with them. Zevran and he broke up at the end of it, but both still have strong feelings. Maroth was previously married to Nesiara and they had a daughter. Vaughn killed Nessy and Maroth took his daughter and left her with the Dalish so she would be safe.I think that's all you'll need to know to read this story, if you haven't read anything else in the series. It's AU but a lot of the information regarding Crow hierarchy and structure is canon. Oh! And Maroth became known as The Dark Wolf (a DA:O title you get for a certain line of quests) prior to the Blight, the details of which are found in "A Smuggler's Chant".
> 
> Oh, one last thing: in my hc, all Denerim elves have Sera's accent

_Mi lobo, I need your help._

Maroth stares at the crumpled scroll, heart beating fast beneath his chest. Mi lobo. He clenches his fist around the note, anger thundering through him, before throwing it in the fire. "Bastard," he growls. 

He gently hits his fist against the wall so as not to wake the prostitute in his bed, tears threatening to spill from his dark green eyes. Heart still beating fast, he turns his head to watch the note burning, ashes floating in the air. Quickly, he reaches for it, pulling it out before the entire scroll is ruined. Smoothing it out, he reads it for what feels like the thousandth time, finger tracing over the words. Mi lobo. My wolf. 

"I thought I wasn't yours anymore?" he wonders aloud. He turns, looking into the mirror. His long, dark blonde hair is braided tight down his back. A single golden earring hangs in his ear; the last, bitter, reminder of what he had almost had with Zevran. A goodbye present. 

And now the assassin needs his help. He contemplates turning him down. But, in the end, he knows that isn't possible. Resisting Zevran has never been something he was very good at.

Maroth sighs, rubbing a hand across his face in frustration.

"Hmmm? What's wrong?" a soft voice asks from his bed.

He startles, turning to glance at the dwarven woman in his bed. "Ah, yer awake, yeah? Yer coins on the table."

The woman frowns, lips forming a cute pout. "I thought you had bought time for us for the whole week? Did I not live up to your expectations?" 

Maroth grins, walking over to her. He kisses her, enjoying the taste of wine still on her tongue. "S'not that. Somethin' just suddenly came up."

She reaches a hand down to massage his shaft through his breeches. "Something certainly has come up," she purrs.

He chuckles, kissing her once more. "I might hav' time fer another round before I leave," he replies, stripping off his shirt.

The firelight casts silhouettes of their naked forms against the wall. The sex is good, but quick, and he leaves the dwarven woman sleeping after. He grabs his things, and the note, and leaves the shady brothel behind. His jingles the coin left in his purse as the night air brushes against his skin.

"Better be enough for a ship ta Antiva," he grumbles to himself. "Bloody assassins."


	2. Chapter 2

The salty sea air is warm against Maroth's skin as he walks along the docks of Antiva. He keeps his hood drawn low, attempting to blend in with the crowds. A tall human steps in front of his path, blocking his way. 

Maroth raises an eyebrow at the tall, nearly bald man in front of him. "Er. 'Ello. Yer, uh, in my way," he says, attempting to step around him.

The man is an unmoving mountain, however, and places a delicate hand on Maroth's shoulder. "You are The Dark Wolf? Come with Mateo," he replies.

The familiar accent sends a stabbing pain through Maroth's heart as he tries to shake the man off. "Eh, don't know w'at yer on about, shem. Never heard of this Dark Wolf," he says, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge.

"Do not joke with Mateo. Come, Black Shadow wishes to see you." The man frowns down at him, thick eyebrows shaped like one, long hairy caterpillar across his forehead. "You come now."

Maroth blinks up at him. "Oiy, w'at're ya on about? Who's shadow?"

The human frowns harder. "Mateo does not wish to take you by force, but he will. Come."

"Err... yer Mateo, yeah? Well, Mateo, shove yer 'Black Shadow' up yer arse." He tries once again to walk around the lanky man only to be lifted up and placed across his shoulder. "Oiy! OIY! Put me down, ya overgrown dodgy prat!"

Mateo shifts him slightly so that his large, meaty shoulder is no longer digging so sharply into Maroth's stomach. "Now you come. Do not fuss or it may hurt."

Maroth lets out a low laugh as he contemplates his options. He can't reach any of his weapons from this position, and his potions are out of reach, as well. He sinks his teeth into the fat of the man's back.  _This will either get me free or get me killed_ , he figures.

Mateo sighs. "He did not warn Mateo you were such a feisty one," he says. "If you continue to fight Mateo, Mateo will have to bring you to The Black Shadow in pieces. He will not like this and might punish for Mateo for it. Please do not fight."

"Ya know, it might help if you bloody told me who the frig "he" is, yeah?" Maroth replies, blood starting to rush to his head. 

Mateo pauses. "You... do not know? Mateo had hear you were lovers, once. How can you not know him?"

"Lovers? Oh, fer the love of... Zevran? Yer taking me to Zevran, yeah?" He groans loudly, annoyance running through him. "Put me down, ya oaf. I'll walk there, thanks."

The man hesitates before setting Maroth down on his feet. "You will cooperate, yes? Please do not make Mateo chase you." He wags his finger in Maroth's face, frowning.

Maroth bows, gesturing grandly. "Lead the way, then, Mateo."

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth's heart is in his throat as he stares across the table at Zevran. His mouth is dry and his palms sweaty as he struggles with something, anything, to say to the man. It's only been six months. Why is he like this? His chest constricts with pain. Frig..

"You came," Zevran says, brows furrowed. "I feared, after how we parted, you would not."

Maroth wets his lips, taking in the dark green cloak and strange, metal beak protruding over Zevran's head. "Right. Well, I'm here. W'at do ya want?"

Zevran flinches, golden eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He nods to Mateo and the human leaves them alone. The assassin sighs, weariness lining his face. "I plan on overtaking House Arainai."

His eyes widen as he takes in Zevran's words. "Overtake? Have ya lost the plot of somethin'? They'll kill ya."

Zevran flashes him a smile. "Not if you help me," he replies.

Maroth groans, running his fingers through his long hair. "I'd be a right nutter to even consider it," he replies flatly.

"Then I will die," Zevran says with a shrug. 

A frown tugs at Maroth's lips. "A right nutter," he repeats before sighing. "Right, you better have a friggin' good plan, yeah?"

Zevran grins, leaning over the table and spreading out a large sheet of parchment. "That I do, mi lobo."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is popular fanon that accepts Antiva as being inspired by either ancient Span or ancient Italy, depending on who you ask. I mixed South American influences to form my own hc version, since we've yet to see it in game (an only very briefly in comics). It may later be invalidated by actual canon, but as for now, this is how I picture it.
> 
> Hedge mage is a DA thing, with more details found here: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Hedge_magic I did go a little strong with HC on exactly what Pip is capable of. But that's the fun of fanfic.

Fire licks across Maroth's skin, burning him as the smell of cooked flesh fills the air. "Sonuvabitch," he growls, batting at the flames. "This is yer plan? This is a shite plan."

Zevran shrugs as he wipes the blood from his daggers. "Master Alejandro is dead, no?"

Maroth stares at him, mouth agape. "I'm on fire," he says, dousing the last of the flames. "And it hurts," he adds, pouting. 

Zevran sends him a wink over his shoulder. "I hear burns are all the rage in Orlais, yes?"

"No," Maroth replies. "That's scars, an' it's Rivain." He chuckles, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yer plan better improve from 'ere. Forgot ta mention some of yer assassins were mages."

"Just the one," he replies. "And that should gain the attention of the Grandmaster. A few more masters taken down, and we'll have Eoman jumping at shadows."

Maroth lets out a low laugh as he glances over at the corpse of Alejandro, the mage assassin. "Bloody shame he was such a looker. I think I need ta stiff drink, right? An' some healin' balm."

"I know just the place," Zevran replies.

 

~*~*~

 

The tavern is loud and full of music. Beautiful men and women dance around the elegantly carved tables, playing castanets as they sing along in Antivan. Maroth leans back in his chair, a tall mug in hand. "W'at am I drinking? Doesn't taste much like the stuff in Ferelden."

Zevran crinkles his nose. "That.. swill they serve there is hardly liquor. This is chicha de jora. The brew changes, depending on where you are in Antiva, but this is my favourite. All I need is a bowl of fish chowder, and the night would be complete."

An elven girl in a long, red dress with a slit up the side dances her way toward them. The ruffles twirl in tune with her movements, her silvery blue eyes dancing with joy. Her hair is short and messy, a dark brown with hints of copper that matches the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. She steps atop the table and continues the dance, baring her slender legs to the golden candlelight. Maroth grins, leaning forward. "I think I might like Antiva, yeah? 'Specially the taverns," he murmurs. 

Zevran laughs next to him, and Maroth tries not to show how much it stings to hear. "Perhaps we should ask the lady to join us upstairs?" he asks.

Maroth blinks at him, surprised by his suggestion. "Uh. Together?" he asks, trying to show off an air of confidence and failing. Blasted assassin. Only person he's ever known, man or woman, to throw him this way.

Zevran winks, stroking a finger across the small crow pinned to his lapel. "I think she will provide plenty of entertainment for us, no?"

"Oh. Oh, right, yeah," Maroth replies, covering up his disappointment. She's a contact, nothing more. Blasted friggin' assassin.

He follows Zevran and the woman up the stairs to a private room, a scowl placed firmly on his face. With each step he regrets his choice to come all the way to Antiva even more. Zevran closes the door with a soft click as the woman plops down on the bed, a smirk curling her lips. 

"Ugh, I hate this dress," she grouses. "You Antivans wear the weirdest shit."

Maroth raises an eyebrow as the girl strips off the long garment until she's wearing nothing but her small clothes. "Ah, much better. Now we can talk," she says.

Zevran shakes his head, taking a seat in a curved chair by the window. "Ah, Piper, you have not changed since last I saw you. And glad I am for that."

Piper snorts, twirling a small throwing needle from her boot between her fingers. "Charming as ever, Kadan. Who's your friend?"

"Piper, meet Maroth Tabris," Zevran replies. "Also known as The Dark Wolf."

Piper raises an eyebrow and rolls over on her side. She props her head up with her hand, leaning on her elbow. "Well, well. I have heard of you. Few months back I was visiting Ferelden and a pretty bard was singing a song about you. A thief and a charmer, they say. Say it's all true."

Maroth grins, bowing at the waist. "The stories ya 'ear are all false. Except ta ones t'at tell of how attractive I am."

Piper chuckles. "I can see that for myself." She glances over her shoulder at Zevran. "Kadan, tell me you're not too terribly attached to this one?"

Maroth's smile drops. He looks over at Zevran, who steadily refuses to meet his eyes. The assassin clears his throat. "Ah, so I see you did receive my letter, Piper? I need someone of your... rather unique skills, old friend."

Piper looks between the two of them before shaking her head. "Straight to business. Never thought I'd see the day when the infamous Zevran Arainai passes up an opportunity to flirt. Alright then, what do you need from a bard?"

"I don't need your bardic talents. I need your hedge mage skills."

She stops twirling the throwing needle and frowns, hard, eyes flashing dangerously. "No," she replies, tone harsh and flat. 

He sighs, getting up to sit next to her own the bed. "I would not ask if I did not need it," he says, pleading.

"Hedge mage? Wat's'it?" Maroth asks.

Zevran lets out a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world with it. "An untrained mage, mi lobo. Their talents vary, but the spells are not the same as you would see from a circle-trained mage."

Maroth nods, pretending to understand. "Right. So, w'at we need a mage fer?"

Piper frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because I can find shit. I can also make things hard to find, or people harder to see. Something something, bend the fade shit, yadda yadda bullshit." She glares at Zevran. "And I'm not doing it."

Zveran slowly raises his eyes to meet hers, a pleading expression furrowing his brows. "It's for Rinna and Taliesin."

"Vashedan," she whispers. "I hate you. You're doing that on purpose to get me to help, aren't you?"

A small grin curves his lips. "Maybe a little," he admits. "Is it working?"

Maroth watches as Piper closes her eyes, leaning her head against the pillows. Her freckles stand out against her light brown skin. Her lips are parted as she takes in slow, measured breaths. When she speaks, she keeps her eyes closed, arms still folded across her chest. "You owe me a drink for this, kadan."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piper: Huge shout out to Milkytwilight (DA) / NextCastle (tumblr) and Erzba (fanfiction . net), two of my dearest friends, without whom Piper would not be who she is today.
> 
> Art by me.


	4. Chapter 4

The corridor is long and full of shadows. It reminds him of the Deep Roads, the way the walls close in on him, pressing tight until he can't breathe. Narrow spaces make his ears twitch, stomach churning as he remembers the dwarven tunnels.

A shiver runs down Maroth's spine as he glances at Piper. An eerie green glow hovers around her, making her skin look sickly in the darkness. Her eyes are closed, head tilted back, arms raised. Her face is pinched and contorted into an expression of pain as sweat trickles down her entire body, soaking her clothes. A soft sheen covers her skin.

He looks away, unable to stomach watching it. He can still feel it though, trickles of the fade slithering across his skin like oil. It feels worse than the time he was actually trapped in the fade, held by a demon of sloth. He watches Zevran's face instead, trying to focus on anything else but the horrifying feel of strange magic touching him. The assassin's face holds more sorrow than Maroth's ever seen before, his eyes locked on the hedge mage. Hesitantly, Maroth places a hand on his shoulder, brows furrowed.

Zevran startles, glancing down at the Maroth's long fingers. He sighs, pressing a soft kiss against his fingertips. "Thank you," Zevran whispers, almost too soft for Maroth to hear. 

Piper lets out a breath, eyes flickering open. "There. Unless they're looking for you, they won't see you. Now can we kill them and be done with it?"

Maroth chuckles, patting her on the back. "Not 'ere for killin' this time. We need ta know who's next in line ta be Grandmaster."

"I hate you both," she pouts. "I'd druther kill them all."

"So macabre, my dear. I like it. Soon, you will have the chance to kill as many people as you like. Today, we are only here to steal some documents." 

"Fuck you, kadan," she replies with a small smile. 

Zevran opens his mouth to reply but she presses a finger against his lip. "Hush. It wasn't an offer this time," she says.

Maroth follows close behind his companions, a frown etched across his face at their easy flirting. Jealousy bubbles inside him like lava, burning until he feels like throwing up. He reminds himself that Zevran doesn't belong with him, and never really has. He has no claims on the assassin's affections, and Maker knows he hasn't been celibate since their parting, either. 

He stifles a sigh and forces his attention on something else. His gaze drops down, following the smooth line of Zevran's breeches around the curve of his ass. It sways slightly as he walks, footsteps soft, toward the closed door at the end of the corridor. Maroth trips over a crack in the floor, stumbling forward and catching himself on the wall. Zevran raises an eyebrow at him, glancing back over his shoulder. Maroth glares back, embarrassment sweeping over him.  He's not about to admit he was staring at the man's ass, so he makes a rude gesture instead and continues walking.

Zevran shakes his head, brows furrowed. He doesn't say anything as his arm stretches out, fingertips clasping around the doorknob and pushing gently. He slips into the room, Piper following close behind. Maroth follows them both, heart thumping.

A hand covers his mouth from behind. A wrenching pain shoots through his shoulder as someone twists his arm behind his back. "Be quiet, knife-ear," a voice whispers.

He can smell the stank smell of ale on the man's breath as a cold blade presses against his throat. Eyes wide, he looks at Zevran. The assassin lets out a low growl in the back of his throat, eyes narrowed with anger.

"You should let him go," Zevran warns, blades gripped tight in his fists. "Before you make me truly angry."

A low chuckle emits from the man holding him. "Tell me, why should I not kill you all for entering a place you're not wanted?"

Piper's eyes dart between Maroth and Zevran, throwing needles twirling fast between her fingers. "Kadan?"

Maroth swallows, mouth now free since the man's hands are busy holding his arm and the weapon. "Thought ya said no one could see us?" he says, glaring at the hedgemage.

Piper shrugs. "I said _if_ they weren't looking, didn't I?"

"Well, frig," Maroth whispers.

The man presses the blade closer to this throat. Zevran snarls as beads of blood drip from Maroth's neck. "Let him go," he repeats. "Or I will reveal your intestines for the birds to peck while you're still breathing."

Piper sighs, running her fingers through her hair. "You like this one, right kadan? Just remember, you fucking owe me." 

A flash of light bursts through the room, blinding pain shooting through his eyes as his vision fades. The blade slides against the side of his neck as the man holding him howls in pain. Blood leaks from the wound, and Maroth sends a silent prayer of thanks that it isn't deep. He falls to the ground, still blind as panic rises in his chest. His heart is a roar of thunder in his ears as he flails, trying to see. Memories of being in the Deep Roads, with deepstalker venom burning in his eyes, haunt him.

A scream shatters the silence as his vision starts to return. Warm blood pools around him and he has only a moment to be grateful that it isn't his own before Zevran is on him, pressing his lips against his in a kiss that takes his breath away. Maroth returns the kiss, gripping the back of Zevran's head with bloodstained hands. When they finally pull apart, Zevran rests his forehead against Maroth's.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, voice shaky. 

Maroth grunts, closing his eyes. "That tattoo ya gave me hurt more," he teases.

Zevran chuckles, pulling away. "Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humour, mi lobo."

Maroth turns his head toward the girl as Piper groans. "Ugh. You know, I was the one to save you. Both of you, actually. It's not fair you're the only one getting kisses."

He snorts, getting to his feet. "W'at was that ya did, anyway? Magic shite, yeah?"

"Yeah," she replies. "Don't ask so many questions, Wolf."

Zevran rummages around in a nearby chest of drawers, golden eyes catching the candlelight. "Piper does not appreciate her unique skill set. She has always loathed questions regarding her special brand of magic." He pulls a bound scroll from the drawer. "Ah ha! Here it is. Now let us leave before more of my fellow assassins find us."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the canon: Four months after the Blight ended, Grandmaster Eoman was murdered by a mysterious assassin, followed by the murders of both Grandmaster Runn and Grandmaster Availa, as well as other members of the House over the ensuing three years. The House, so recently risen in status, was thrown into obscurity following these deaths at the hands of a fellow Crow. The belief is that Zevran, known as the "Black Shadow" amongst the Antivan Crows, is the man responsible for slowly bringing the House to ruin with the aid of the cuchillos.
> 
> That's found on the wiki. I changed a few things. Six months instead of four. And of course, Piper and Maroth's inclusion on the whole affair.

The pungent smell of salt water, fish, and strange perfume lingers in the air despite the rank smell of cheap liqueur wafting from the half empty bottle in Maroth's hand. He sits on the high wall surrounding the docks, hair blowing freely in the wind, unencumbered by his usual thick braid. The Antivan brandy is sweet against his tongue as he takes another drink. His intoxicated thoughts drift to Zevran, and how distant the man has been since their kiss. Figures Zevran would only be passionate in life or death situations.

"Fuckin' Antivans," he mumbles.

A soft voice chuckles beside him. He startles, nearly falling off the wall in the process, before righting himself.

"Oiy, didn't no one never teach you s'not to sneak up on people?" he grumbles, glaring at Piper.

She shrugs, smiling. "That sentence was a mess," she teases. "You're from Denerim, right? I can tell by the accent." She gestures toward his bottle. "Share?"

He grunts, handing her the bottle with a sigh. "Why the frig not?"

Piper takes a long swig before handing it back. "So, what's got you so melancholy, wolf? You and kadan fighting again?"

"S'not fightin'," he snaps. "How can ya fight wi't someone who won't even talk ta ya?"

She nods, looking out across the great, wide ocean. Seagulls fly against a distant horizon as they both sit, quietly lost in thought.

"He's a complicated one, isn't he? Doesn't let people get too close. I think he's scared of losing them." She hands the bottle back to him, still looking across the sea.

Maroth snorts, taking another swig of brandy. "Can't lose somethin' ya don't even have."

"Exactly," Piper replies. "That's exactly the point. Kadan-"

Maroth interrupts, eyes narrowed. "W'at is wi't this 'kadan' bullshit, anyway?" he asks, the pet name gnawing at him.

She raises an eyebrow in response to his outburst. "It's qunlat," she says. 

"Qunwat?" Maroth asks. "Oh, ain't that the language them big horned beasties talk? Ya don't look like ya got horns on yer head."

She rolls her silvery blue eyes at him, lips twisting into a smirk. "Eh, fuck off. You don't have to be grey-skinned with horns to be Qunari.  It's more like a religious description than a race. I was what they call a ' _viddathari_ ' until they found out I was ' _saarebas_ '. "

Maroth blinks at her. "I didn't understand a lick ov that," he mutters. 

"Really? None at all?" she asks, tone light with an edge of playfulness to it.

He shrugs. "I understood part of it," he amends. "So how'd ya become a vidder- viddi- watsist thing?"

"Eh? Oh. Long story, that. Short of it is, the Qunari rescued me from their Tal-Vasoth mercenary types. And then Zevran rescued me from them. But some of their words stick, like grit on the skin. Kadan means someone close to your heart."

Maroth nods, giving himself time to think by taking a long drink of the dwindling remains of brandy. "Why'd ya need rescuing from the Qunari if they saved ya?" he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

"They found out I have magic, of course. _Saarebas_. Didn't fancy having my tongue cut out and locked in chains, did I? So I left. They followed. Zevran, Rinna, and Taliesin, they hid me. I owe them my **life**." 

Maroth grunts, taking the last swig of brandy. "And now Rinna and Taliesin are dead, yeah? So that's why yer helpin' Zevran?"

She beams at him, cheeks bright pink. "Yep! Kadan is the only family I got now. Bloody bastard that he is."

"Cheers ta that," Maroth replies, handing her the empty bottle of brandy. "We should go see w'at he has planned next, yeah?"

 

~*~*~

 

"Yer a nutter," Maroth says, blinking rapidly at Zevran. "An absolute blasted friggin' nutter. That's one ov ta worst plans I've heard."

Zevran grins, though he still won't meet Maroth's eyes. "But you have heard a worse one, yes? I thought the Dark Wolf would enjoy such a challenge, no?"

"There's a challenge, an' then there's havin' a death wish."

Piper nods her head, a frown firmly placed across her face. "I hate to say it, kadan, but Wolf is right. You really think we should just attack Eoman right now? He's jumping at shadows, sure, but he's Grandmaster for a reason. Sounds like a good way to get the entire house Arainai against us. I can't kill  _that_ many people at once."

Zevran lets out a fake sigh, leaning against the wall. His face is half hidden by shadows, eyes gleaming. "Now is the perfect time to attack Eoman. I will do this alone, yes? I have other plans for the both of you."

"Ah, this should be good, yeah?" 

Zevran glances over at him, briefly meeting his eyes before looking away again. "There are two successors for Grandmaster; Runn and Availa." He hands them both a scroll. 

The parchment is aged and yellow with ink smears staining the surface. Maroth unrolls his, reading the elegantly curved words. 'Runn' is scrawled across the top, followed by information on his location and description.

Maroth glances up. "Er, yer aware I'm no assassin, yeah?"

A shadow of a smile ghosts across Zevran's face. "You are more than capable, mi lobo."

"Well, frig," he replies. "Right, so we're each takin' someone down. Sounds perfectly sane an' rational. It's not like the Antivan Crows have a deadly reputation or anythin'."

Piper snorts, a rude sound punctuating the air. "Fuckin' shit. Well, if this is the last you see of me, it's been nice knowing you both. Ataash varin kata: In the end lies glory." 


	6. Chapter 6

Maroth slips through the alleys, carefully making his footfalls as light as possible. His information says Runn will be passing by this spot in an hour's time. All Maroth has to do is wait. Not that he's ever been the patient sort.

He forces his long legs to curl up into a ball, hidden back behind some crates and snuggled in between a crack in the wall. He listens to the sound of his heart beating wildly against his ribs. Thuwp thump. Thuwp thump. He wonders again why Zevran even asked him to come. For all his contacts and connections, why him? He's been mostly ignored the entire time he's been here. Jealousy flares again as he thinks of Piper, despite the girl's assurances she wants no entanglements. 

Fuck.

He hates this feeling. This uncertainty surrounding him like a dark rain cloud. He had figured it was over between them. Until the kiss. Maroth presses a finger against his lips, remembering the feel of Zevran's hands in his hair, gripping him close. He feels a tightening in his loins at the same time his heart skips a beat, loneliness and need colliding in his head.

He squirms a bit, trying to get more comfortable despite being wedged in tight. He grabs his new dagger, the metal hilt cold in his hand. He misses his old pole weapon, the way the carved iron bark fit in his hand. He closes his eyes, reminiscing about the Blight. He'd killed werewolves and demons and darkspawn with that weapon, and even fought a dragon. But it was large and hard to carry stealthily.

And besides all that, he broke the blasted thing walking through Denerim drunk one night. 

So now all he has are his two daggers, the broken remains of his pole still kept in a painted box. Maybe it was foolish sentimentality, but the stupid thing was important to him. His hand reaches up almost on reflex to touch the golden earring hanging off his ear. Apparently, he was a man full of foolish sentimentality. 

He's half asleep when he hears the shuffling sounds of someone walking nearby. His entire body tenses, daggers held at the ready. He peeks out behind the crates, still hiding in the shadows. A tall human male is standing near him. The moonlight bounces off the man's short cropped red hair. He fits the description, so Maroth shifts, slightly, willing him to come closer.

And he does, walking past the crates, unaware that anyone waits for him. Maroth jumps out, grabbing the man from behind. He presses a blade against his throat. "The Black Shadow says 'ello," he whispers, ripping the blade across in a swift motion.

The man gurgles as he falls, clutching his throat with wide eyes as blood pools around Maroth's boots. He grimaces as the man dies, watching the shem take his last breath.

Laughter echoes behind him. He spins around, fear in his throat as his pulse beats like a caged bird.

"Zevran should have brought in a better assassin," a voice says as a man steps from the shadows. His bright red hair is cut short, eerily similar to the dead man at Maroth's feet. "You fell for such an amateur trap."

Maroth hesitates, licking his lips as the man prowls toward him, like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. "Wat's'it? Who 're ya?"

The man grins, flashing teeth in the darkness. "I, señor, am Runn. That poor man you have just killed was a merchant I paid to walk down this road in my place."

The realization he's killed an innocent man hits him hard, like ice water pouring over his head. "Shite," he whispers.

Runn chuckles, the sound sliding softly through the night air. The hairs on the back of Maroth's neck stand straight up as fear holds him stock still. Runn is close, barely a hair's breadth away. A strange, bitter smell fills his nose as he struggles to move. 

"That is an airborne poison that holds you immobile. Struggle if you wish, but it will  be in vain," Runn explains. He places a hand on Maroth's shoulder, fingers curling around and digging into his skin. "Tell the 'Black Shadow', he'll have to do better than this," he whispers.

Pain shoots through Maroth's abdomen. His eyes widen as Runn places him on the ground, still unable to move his limbs as shearing pain rips through him. He can see the stars twinkling above him, bright against the blackness of the sky. His own blood is warm against his skin, pouring from the wound and mingling with the merchant laying nearby. He watches those stars as his vision begins to fade, the pitch black sky growing darker as he loses consciousness. 

His last thought before he dies is of his daughter, still far away with a Dalish clan. He thinks of her in this moment, of the way her tiny laugh would fill the room. Sweet little Lala, his only reminder of Nessy. He sends a final prayer to the Maker that she's still alright, and that she feels at home among the Dalish elves, before consciousness leaves him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I became impatient and decided to upload early. This is the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed it and feedback welcomed!

Warmth spreads through his body. Maroth opens his eyes, vision still foggy. A blurred face hovers over him, brows furrowed with concern. He recognizes the faded outline of Zevran's facial tattoos and attempts a smile.

"I'm alive, yeah?" he mumbles, blinking through the haze.

Zevran nods, fingertips brushing against his cheek. "You are, mi lobo. Thank the Maker."

Maroth raises an eyebrow as he tries to sit up, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Tell me we're plannin' on guttin' that pig bastard Runn, yeah?"

"Mateo and I have already seen to it, while Piper healed your wounds," Zevran replies, pushing him back on the bed. "You must rest now. I assure you, Runn regretted having ever laid a hand on you."

Maroth sighs, settling back against the pillows. "Well, that's good, then, right? Frig. I hate assassins. Present company excluded," he says. "Frig."

Zevran chuckles. He grabs a canteen of water, pale blonde hair falling against his cheek. Expression guarded, he hands it to Maroth. "Here. You should drink plenty of fluids."

The water is cool against his tongue as he takes slow, careful sips. "So, yer friend healed me, eh?" 

"Ah, yes. She is no empath and spirit healer like our Melina, but she does adequately with what she has."

Maroth smiles at this, Melina's smiling face coming to mind. "I saw her, a few months back. She asked after ya. Wondered how ya were doin' an' shit."

Zevran gets up, nodding his head. "You may stay here until you are well enough to travel," he replies, ignoring Maroth's comment about Melina.

Maroth's smile slips from his face, heart thudding somewhere near his stomach. "How generous," he grumbles. "I'd druther stay where I'm wanted," he adds, forcing himself to sit up. He groans in pain as he tries to get off the bed.

Zevran frowns from his spot in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. "I said you should rest," he snaps. 

"An' I said I'm s'not stayin' where I'm s'not welcome, arse."

Zevran walks over to him, a dark shadow covering his face. Maroth reaches for his shirt, ignoring the assassin's scowl. "If you do not lay back down, I will tie you to that bed myself," Zevran warns.

Maroth snorts. "S'not really in the mood fer sex," he quips.

This catches Zevran off guard as he stands there, dumbfounded, while Maroth struggles with his shirt.

After a moment, he sighs, hanging his head. "Would it help you to hear that I very much want you to stay?" Zevran asks.

Maroth's heart leaps, thudding fast at his words. "Yer sure on that? S'not a ploy ta get me lay down, yeah?"

Zevran raises his head, slowly meeting Maroth's eyes. "I cannot ask you to stay forever. What I have planned, is too dangerous. I cannot risk it, and with someone like you so close, they will have a target to hold against me. But until you heal, I would like it greatly if you stayed."

Maroth frowns, anger and joy mixing inside him. "I guess I'll take w'at I can get then, yeah?" He leans forward, crushing his lips against Zevran's, despite the pain.

Even if it's only for awhile, he'll stay, and enjoy this brief moment. Even if it's only temporary, he'll take each kiss with greed and hunger. Even if it kills him to leave, knowing Zevran will still be in danger. Because he can't resist him, even when his heart is breaking.


End file.
